The Long Road Home
Over the years I have found it intriguing how the memory of certain hunts linger. For me, it is rarely the recollection of a hunt that ended with my shadow being cast on a huge buck or a mammoth tom turkey. Rather my mind is invaded by the visions of hunts whose value is measured on a different scale. Whether it is the memory dying light set on a late autumn cornfield or an October wind sweeping through the maples, visions from certain hunts seem to haunt my mind. However for me, there is one hunt who is never far from my thoughts.
Squirrel hunting has always been my passion. The Autumns of my youth were spent scouring the hardwoods of my childhood home in search of my desired quarry with my 22 rifle in hand and pockets weighted down with shells. As the years advanced, my skills improved as did the quality of my gear. But my fire for this form of hunting could not burn any hotter that it did when it was first ignited. Over the years I had acquired access to hunting grounds far superior to the forgotten block of hardwoods that I grew up stalking. But ever so often I venture back to the track of timber where my journey began. On a cool September morning a few years back, a reunion took place that bridged the present with the past. This is that tale…
I parked my truck quietly at the garage and slid past my parents home trying not to wake them. Sliding past their barn I crossed the back yard in a flash and made my way through the a hole in the old plank fence, a hole I would have been in charge of fixing if cattle still dwelled these now idle fields. Entering the woods, I was overcome by the rich aroma of the forest. A scent that immediately summoned a connection to the past. It was the same scent that greeted me on those cherished hunts of old. The lighting sky in the East reminded me to hasten my pace. A quarter mile of mediocre woods lay between me and the logging road that would guide me to my destination. On this day, it would take me a bit further.
I settled my back against an ancient oak. It was a tree I knew all too well. The same oak I had always started my hunts with. As a kid I had quickly learned that oaks were more comfortable to nestle into than the shaggy bark hickories that predominated this block of forest. I began to ponder how many meetings me and that ol' tree have had. The erratic swaying of branches brought me back to reality. The woods first offering was a lone gray squirrel moving through the canopy. A single shot anchored him and he fell the forest flood with a resounding thud. As I marked his location, another gray barked in discontentment at the recent events. He joined his companion and was introduced to the Tennessee clay. As I cycled another round into the chamber, I began to speculate at the number of squirrels I have shot from that station. I could remember a foggy morn, two decades removed, when half a limit fell from those hallowed treetops. But those numbers would not be duplicated on this day. After 15 barren minutes, I knew it was time to follow the path a little deeper.
Moving up the road, I finally arrived at the "Watch Tower". The watch tower was what I referred to an old wooden tree stand that laid at a junction in the logging road. As a kid, I was amazed how anyone could have built such a contraption in an area so deep in the forest. I was pleasantly surprised that a couple of its gray rotten beams have withstood the test of time, as it was in a state disrepair when I had first encountered it all those many years ago. As I pushed my back against a large cedar at the center point where the roads fork, I could see visions of a young boy in mismatched camo staring up at the tower, trying to muster the courage climb up. The distinct sound of a squirrel cutting echoed loudly revived my focus. The rain of hickory shrapnel revealed the form of a fat gray squirrel on a low limb of undersized hickory directly across the fork of the road. My little browning broke the silence for squirrel 3.
As the morning progressed I became immersed in the past. I realized that I had a connection with virtually every tree along the trail. The big elm that I shot squirrel 10 out of on my first ever limit. The twisted white oak at the corner of the creek who refused to relinquish that pudgy fox squirrel on my first hunt. I found myself lost in the wonder of hunts from the past. Not the usual nostalgia that is felt on all hunts where the bonds of time have proven strong. But rather a reawakening of the true feeling of the hunt. A feeling that had been absent for some time. A feeling I was afraid I had lost.
I glanced at my watch and cringed a bit as it harshly confirmed what the sun had already told me. I was falling behind. Crossing of the main road, I followed a skidder trail than was becoming more faint with each passing summer. This ol branch of the road had rewarded me many times over the years, as it snaked through woods where oaks were targeted by the saw men's blade but hickories were spared. Once again, it would pay its dues as squirrel 4, a fox prone to overzealous cutting, tumbled from the top of a bent walnut tree. As I reached down to pick him up, I began to recall my childhood fascination with fox squirrels. There inconsistent nature baffled me. Sometimes I would net half a limit of them in this parcel of timber, then go weeks before laying eyes on another. And due to their tough nature and knife dulling abilities, I was not sure If I deemed their absence a blessing or a curse. I would not cross paths with another on this morning.
I would reach the paths end a few minutes after the catydids started their morning serenade. Their chant had always acted a reminder that the morning's prime hunting had past. My path ended at a now overgrown log landing. I can remember finding this landing as a child, when the forest floor had just begun to recover from the trauma left behind. Now, the saplings of yesterday were almost as large as the trees lining its perimeter. This place had always served a turning point for me. From here I could cross over to the old log barn or the dry pond bed and loop back to the main road and head home before my parents began to worry. Had I had 7 or 8 squirrels hanging from my stick at this point, a limit would be assured with the slightest of luck. However, I would not touch squirrel 5 till I was leaving the landing confirming that would not see a limit on this day.
The relatively open nature of the landing quickly gave way to a dense understory as I headed west toward the ol log barn. I always despised this area of the route. It wasn't for a lack of squirrels, as it seemed to hold numbers that rivaled all the but the best areas I would survey. But in the fact that their recovery would be problematic, at best. I recalled scouring this stretch of briar laden purgatory on a balmy morning many years removed in search of a pair grays that I would never claim. As a young hunter, my excitement for the trigger would often supercede my ability to mark my trees before the shot. Leaving me guessing as to the location of my fallen prizes. As my eyes searched for a familiar tree, movement was revealed to my left. A pair of grays, flirting or fighting, raced across the massive limbs of a barren oak. I blew the double on an errant shot on the lead squirrel, but solidly anchored the trailer. This time recovery was easy and I moved onward to more hospitable ground.
Arriving at the log barn brought back many memories. It was nestled in a small opening in the forest, surrounded by dense oaks. As if from a page from a children's book. Its rough sewn logs, seem to defy time itself. It had changed surprisingly little since I had first stumbled upon it after taking a wrong turn near the old dried pond bed, back in youth. But it wasn't the barn that I sought, but rather the massive red oak that stretched beyond its walls. The oak, whom strangely I had never named, split at the trunk into three massive columns. It was the largest tree that I had spied in that stretch of woods, and the most reliable. Even when hickories were the food of choice, this tree held squirrels. Doubles and triples became a reality, more times that I could measure. On one hunt in particular, 5 or 6 could have fallen with a more accurate rifle and more experienced hands. I stood in awe of its grandeur, envious as to how I have changed so much but it so little. Particular limbs were even recognizable as I glanced it boundaries. A feeling swelled deep inside me, one difficult to define. The type of emotion that you feel in the presence of an old friend. Its branches were perfectly still on this windless morning, with the exception of a slight twitch from it highest branches. It was a movement that was unmistakable. As I followed the vein of movement to its origin, I could clearly make out the culprit. A young gray squirrel in search of a late morning snack. He would be the last squirrel of the morning and my feet would find its way back to the road that led me in.
Walking out of the woods that morning, I felt many things. The amount of space left on my squirrel stick served as a reminder that a limit was not in the cards today. But in my heart, I knew that was not how this hunt was to be judged. Todays journey was not a measure of the hunter that I have become, but rather a reconnection with the boy I used to be. And in the moment I was reunited with the true spirit of the hunt.
Over the years I have found it intriguing how the memory of certain hunts linger. For me, it is rarely the recollection of a hunt that ended with my shadow being cast on a huge buck or a mammoth tom turkey. Rather my mind is invaded by the visions of hunts whose value is measured on a different scale. Whether it is the memory dying light set on a late autumn cornfield or an October wind sweeping through the maples, visions from certain hunts seem to haunt my mind. However for me, there is one hunt who is never far from my thoughts.
Squirrel hunting has always been my passion. The Autumns of my youth were spent scouring the hardwoods of my childhood home in search of my desired quarry with my 22 rifle in hand and pockets weighted down with shells. As the years advanced, my skills improved as did the quality of my gear. But my fire for this form of hunting could not burn any hotter that it did when it was first ignited. Over the years I had acquired access to hunting grounds far superior to the forgotten block of hardwoods that I grew up stalking. But ever so often I venture back to the track of timber where my journey began. On a cool September morning a few years back, a reunion took place that bridged the present with the past. This is that tale…
I parked my truck quietly at the garage and slid past my parents home trying not to wake them. Sliding past their barn I crossed the back yard in a flash and made my way through the a hole in the old plank fence, a hole I would have been in charge of fixing if cattle still dwelled these now idle fields. Entering the woods, I was overcome by the rich aroma of the forest. A scent that immediately summoned a connection to the past. It was the same scent that greeted me on those cherished hunts of old. The lighting sky in the East reminded me to hasten my pace. A quarter mile of mediocre woods lay between me and the logging road that would guide me to my destination. On this day, it would take me a bit further.
I settled my back against an ancient oak. It was a tree I knew all too well. The same oak I had always started my hunts with. As a kid I had quickly learned that oaks were more comfortable to nestle into than the shaggy bark hickories that predominated this block of forest. I began to ponder how many meetings me and that ol' tree have had. The erratic swaying of branches brought me back to reality. The woods first offering was a lone gray squirrel moving through the canopy. A single shot anchored him and he fell the forest flood with a resounding thud. As I marked his location, another gray barked in discontentment at the recent events. He joined his companion and was introduced to the Tennessee clay. As I cycled another round into the chamber, I began to speculate at the number of squirrels I have shot from that station. I could remember a foggy morn, two decades removed, when half a limit fell from those hallowed treetops. But those numbers would not be duplicated on this day. After 15 barren minutes, I knew it was time to follow the path a little deeper.
Moving up the road, I finally arrived at the "Watch Tower". The watch tower was what I referred to an old wooden tree stand that laid at a junction in the logging road. As a kid, I was amazed how anyone could have built such a contraption in an area so deep in the forest. I was pleasantly surprised that a couple of its gray rotten beams have withstood the test of time, as it was in a state disrepair when I had first encountered it all those many years ago. As I pushed my back against a large cedar at the center point where the roads fork, I could see visions of a young boy in mismatched camo staring up at the tower, trying to muster the courage climb up. The distinct sound of a squirrel cutting echoed loudly revived my focus. The rain of hickory shrapnel revealed the form of a fat gray squirrel on a low limb of undersized hickory directly across the fork of the road. My little browning broke the silence for squirrel 3.
As the morning progressed I became immersed in the past. I realized that I had a connection with virtually every tree along the trail. The big elm that I shot squirrel 10 out of on my first ever limit. The twisted white oak at the corner of the creek who refused to relinquish that pudgy fox squirrel on my first hunt. I found myself lost in the wonder of hunts from the past. Not the usual nostalgia that is felt on all hunts where the bonds of time have proven strong. But rather a reawakening of the true feeling of the hunt. A feeling that had been absent for some time. A feeling I was afraid I had lost.
I glanced at my watch and cringed a bit as it harshly confirmed what the sun had already told me. I was falling behind. Crossing of the main road, I followed a skidder trail than was becoming more faint with each passing summer. This ol branch of the road had rewarded me many times over the years, as it snaked through woods where oaks were targeted by the saw men's blade but hickories were spared. Once again, it would pay its dues as squirrel 4, a fox prone to overzealous cutting, tumbled from the top of a bent walnut tree. As I reached down to pick him up, I began to recall my childhood fascination with fox squirrels. There inconsistent nature baffled me. Sometimes I would net half a limit of them in this parcel of timber, then go weeks before laying eyes on another. And due to their tough nature and knife dulling abilities, I was not sure If I deemed their absence a blessing or a curse. I would not cross paths with another on this morning.
I would reach the paths end a few minutes after the catydids started their morning serenade. Their chant had always acted a reminder that the morning's prime hunting had past. My path ended at a now overgrown log landing. I can remember finding this landing as a child, when the forest floor had just begun to recover from the trauma left behind. Now, the saplings of yesterday were almost as large as the trees lining its perimeter. This place had always served a turning point for me. From here I could cross over to the old log barn or the dry pond bed and loop back to the main road and head home before my parents began to worry. Had I had 7 or 8 squirrels hanging from my stick at this point, a limit would be assured with the slightest of luck. However, I would not touch squirrel 5 till I was leaving the landing confirming that would not see a limit on this day.
The relatively open nature of the landing quickly gave way to a dense understory as I headed west toward the ol log barn. I always despised this area of the route. It wasn't for a lack of squirrels, as it seemed to hold numbers that rivaled all the but the best areas I would survey. But in the fact that their recovery would be problematic, at best. I recalled scouring this stretch of briar laden purgatory on a balmy morning many years removed in search of a pair grays that I would never claim. As a young hunter, my excitement for the trigger would often supercede my ability to mark my trees before the shot. Leaving me guessing as to the location of my fallen prizes. As my eyes searched for a familiar tree, movement was revealed to my left. A pair of grays, flirting or fighting, raced across the massive limbs of a barren oak. I blew the double on an errant shot on the lead squirrel, but solidly anchored the trailer. This time recovery was easy and I moved onward to more hospitable ground.
Arriving at the log barn brought back many memories. It was nestled in a small opening in the forest, surrounded by dense oaks. As if from a page from a children's book. Its rough sewn logs, seem to defy time itself. It had changed surprisingly little since I had first stumbled upon it after taking a wrong turn near the old dried pond bed, back in youth. But it wasn't the barn that I sought, but rather the massive red oak that stretched beyond its walls. The oak, whom strangely I had never named, split at the trunk into three massive columns. It was the largest tree that I had spied in that stretch of woods, and the most reliable. Even when hickories were the food of choice, this tree held squirrels. Doubles and triples became a reality, more times that I could measure. On one hunt in particular, 5 or 6 could have fallen with a more accurate rifle and more experienced hands. I stood in awe of its grandeur, envious as to how I have changed so much but it so little. Particular limbs were even recognizable as I glanced it boundaries. A feeling swelled deep inside me, one difficult to define. The type of emotion that you feel in the presence of an old friend. Its branches were perfectly still on this windless morning, with the exception of a slight twitch from it highest branches. It was a movement that was unmistakable. As I followed the vein of movement to its origin, I could clearly make out the culprit. A young gray squirrel in search of a late morning snack. He would be the last squirrel of the morning and my feet would find its way back to the road that led me in.
Walking out of the woods that morning, I felt many things. The amount of space left on my squirrel stick served as a reminder that a limit was not in the cards today. But in my heart, I knew that was not how this hunt was to be judged. Todays journey was not a measure of the hunter that I have become, but rather a reconnection with the boy I used to be. And in the moment I was reunited with the true spirit of the hunt.
